"He lives for part of the year in the Mall Compound. And then at Recess he flies home."
Job stood up. Daniello, whoever he was, didn't realize what he had got himself into. He had been prowling the airport and found a woman, confused and alone, without luggage. He had picked her up and brought her here.
Job could write the rest of the story for himself. Stella Michelson was attractive. A valuable property. She would go through a breaking-in period, and then she would be added to Daniello's stable and made to work the streets. Matt would be part of her sexual submission, helping Daniello. Either of them might be here any time.
It was an old and familiar scene. Except that Daniello had jumped to a wrong conclusion, and it could be his downfall. Stella Michelson was not what she appeared to be, a runaway woman without possessions and friends. She had connections within the Mall Compound. The Compound was the center of the country's wealth and power. Daniello was about to find himself in deep trouble.
Along with anyone else who happened to be too close to Stella Michelson. "I have to go now, Stella. Thank you for the water."
"Not at all. It was very nice to meet you." She smiled, and her conventional words became full of meaning. Her face was like an opening flower.
The memory of that smile stayed with Job as he hurried home. He decided to go nowhere today. The rain had returned, business would be poor, and although his head had stopped spinning he could use a day of rest and sleep.
Except that he could neither sleep nor rest. He lay on his narrow bed, stared at the ceiling, and saw images. Of the arrival of Matt, of the return of Daniello. The doors and windows of the house would be shuttered and locked. The two men would strip her naked. Then they would beat her. One or both would have sex with her. Stella Michelson's "education" would begin.
It was sad, but it was none of his business. He owed her nothing but a glass of water. It was not something for which Job should risk comfort or security.
That's what he told himself as he put on his coat and hood, and hurried out into the hissing rain.
The house was still unshuttered. He peered in through the window. She was there, alone. The street was empty. He went around and knocked on the door.
"Stella." He pushed his way in and was speaking before the door was fully open. "Get your coat. Daniello isn't coming here. We have to leave and meet him."
Job had already decided that there would be no time for true explanations. In any case, she might not believe him. He would take her from the house to the edge of the Mall Compound, and tell her to stand there for a few minutes and wait for Daniello. Job would leave at once. The surveillance system would home in on her, as it did anyone on the Compound perimeter, and it would pass on her picture. By now her cousin would have alerted the Mall police, and they would be searching. She ought to be safe inside and back with her family in less than an hour.
What the devil was she doing?
"Stella!"
She turned from the mirror. "If we're going outside, I have to check my hair and do my makeup."
He glanced at the closed door. "Do it when we get there. We have to hurry."
She nodded, and walked calmly across the room to put on her coat and hat." I wish we had an umbrella. It's raining terribly hard out there. Maybe there is one in the cupboard." She opened a closet between the door and window and began to rummage around inside.
For God's sake! Job stepped to her side. He was reaching down to take her arm when the outside door opened.
The man who came in was bareheaded. His dark hair was slicked down over his forehead and dripping with rain. He was a couple of inches shorter than Job, but a lot more heavily built. In one hand he carried a coil of rope, in the other a two-foot length of thick rubber hose. He hardly had the door open before the rope was on the floor and the hose was lifting.
"Who the hell are you?" The voice was a wolf's growl.
"Daniello!"
Job did not need her cry of greeting. The man was blocking the doorway. If there was another way out, Job did not know it. And he would be allowed no time to seek. The man was moving forward, ready to hit first and then ask questions.
Job had not wanted violence. But he could not have survived eight years in the city without being prepared for it. He reached inside his coat to his belt. As Daniello brought his arm down, Job felt for the narrow-bladed knife and threw up his other arm protectively. The blow took him on his raised left elbow, and the pain was astonishing. His arm fell numb to his side. He nearly dropped the knife from his other hand. One more hit like that, and Daniello would be able to do what he liked with him. As the bludgeon was raised again Job thrust forward and up, under the other man's ribs.
He had never stabbed anyone before, and he was surprised at the force that it needed to push through fat and muscle. The knife blade stopped after it had penetrated just a few inches.
But it was enough. The hose came down on the side of Job's head with no force to the blow. The man was grunting, doubling over, reaching for his midriff with both hands.
Job pulled the knife out and stepped clear. It was not a killing stroke. He had seen men with worse wounds rise and clear the street. In a couple of minutes, when the first shock was over, Daniello might come at him again. Job had to be out in the next few seconds; or he had to finish the job and kill the man.
As he hesitated, Stella began to scream. She was retreating from Job, staring at the knife. He stuck it back in his belt. He had to shut her up, or the whole street would be alerted.
"He's not badly hurt" (But he looks like he is, grovelling on the floor grabbing at bis guts.) "Stella, shut up. We have to get out of here now. I'll explain later."
She stopped screaming at once. Not probably because she believed him, but maybe because she was scared. Well, for the moment that would have to do. He could use her fear. He took her arm. "We're leaving. Daniello will be all right. But don't say one word when we are out on the street. Understand?"
She nodded, staring wide-eyed at the bloody knife at his belt. Her expression was more curiosity than fear.
"That's good. Button your coat." He hurried her outside. At the door he took a last look. "Is there anything else of yours in there?"
She shook her head. Job was certain that there was no evidence that he had ever been in the house. He looked both ways along the wet street. There were only two men in sight, both far-off and walking away from them. Job pulled his hat low over his face and reached across to do the same for Stella. She shied away from his hand for a moment, then stood still and allowed him to adjust her hat brim.
"Come on." He took her arm again.
"Where are you taking me?" She had been told not to speak on the street, but there was no way to keep her silent.
"Where you will be safe." He headed for home.
* * *
Job Salk at nineteen was bigger, smarter, more learned and more experienced than Job at fourteen. But he was making mistakes that the fourteen-year-old would never have made.
First of all, the younger Job would never have gone back to the house to find Stella Michelson. And if by some chance he had found himself there, and been forced to rescue her, he would not have taken her with him to his own den. Never, never, never. He would have pointed her towards the Mall Compound, hurried home, and hidden for at least three days. And if somehow Stella had found her way into his home, he would have got rid of her at once and abandoned his hiding place without looking back.
Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connâit point. The heart has its reasons . . . At thirteen, Job had read Pascal as he learned French and wandered randomly through its literature, but he had not known what those reasons were. At nineteen he knew, but at nineteen he could not deny.
Job had gone back for Stella. He had rescued her. He had taken her home. And now he explained what he had done.
She listened gravely, sitting on the bed and drying her dark hair as he talked of the area where he had found her, about the meaning of her picku
p at the airport, of what Daniello did for a living, and what Daniello and Matt had had in mind for her.
He explained slowly and carefully, as to a child. After ten minutes she hung the towel on the line, turned, and said, "You think I'm an idiot, don't you? I'm not. I may not be smart, but I'm not an idiot."
While Job stared, she went on, "I believe what you are telling me, even though I shouldn't, because you're nice and I want to believe you."
Job believed her, for the same bad reason.
"You are right about some things," she went on. "I was silly to believe Daniello, when he said he would go and bring my cousin for me. But where I live, there is no danger. I have never been in any danger, ever." She sat on the narrow bed again. "Are you going to feed me now? I have had nothing since the flight down this morning."
Was there ever such a place, where it could be safe to trust a complete stranger? Job could not imagine it. He went to his food cupboard and examined what he had stored away there. It was more than good enough for him, but not for her.
"Wait a minute." He went out, and returned with a long loaf of bread, a bouillabaisse that was his Brazilian landlord's masterpiece, and two bottles of wine. It had cost him more than he usually spent on food in a month.
Stella accepted it all casually, pulled a face at the wine, and drank it anyway. They had a long, leisurely meal, talking mainly about her home and her life-style. Airplanes, ocean cruises, a house with a hundred rooms. Dogs and horses—but as pets, and not to eat. Parties and waterskiing and powerboats and luxury cars. To Job it all had the unreality of elf-land; yet somehow he believed her. When they had finished eating she watched as Job cleared up, washed and dried the dishes, and put things away.
"Do you often do this yourself?" she said. She had made no offer to help.
He stared at her. She wasn't joking. "I do. Who does your work for you? When it's not me, I mean."
"People." She missed the irony, and waved her hand vaguely. "You know. There's always people around for that sort of thing."
In Job's mind the gulf between them widened still further. He put the last dish in the drawer and went across to feel the hanging coats. They were dry. "Come on."
"Come on where?"
"Home. Where you ought to have been hours ago. It's getting dark. Your cousin will be worried sick."
She put on her coat and hat while he stood and waited, and went with Job through the corridor and as far as the outside door. As he opened it, cold rain came blowing in. It was pelting down harder than ever. She grimaced and pulled back. "I'm not going out in that. Why don't we just call my cousin?"
"I don't have a phone." Calls from any telephone could be traced. He had decided long ago that he would never own one. But he was sure that he could get her to the Mall Compound in such a roundabout way that she would never find her way back here.
"Then my cousin can wait a while longer. This won't let up tonight." She closed the door and went back along the corridor toward Job's room. "I'll go in the morning."
He followed her, indecisive. She had to go, that was clear. But how was he supposed to make her? She sounded firm, while he was finding it harder and harder to summon the energy to do anything. He had drunk only one glass of wine, to keep Stella company, but it had followed a bad night, a painful tooth extraction, and plenty of stress and physical violence. His left cheek still ached, and so did his bruised elbow. All he really wanted to do was flop down somewhere and postpone worry about Stella's problems until tomorrow. And it was not as though she was in any danger. She was as safe with him as she could be anywhere in the city.
It did not occur to Job, then or ever, that there was another and simpler reason: he did not want her to leave.
He took off his coat without speaking and placed it again on its hook. For his trading expeditions into the countryside he took with him a roll mattress. Now he pulled it out from under his bed and spread it on the floor. It was frayed at the edges, with bits of dried grass still stuck to it.
Stella stared. "What's that for?"
"Sleeping on. Maybe you. More likely me."
She snorted at some secret joke. She was opening the second bottle of wine and pouring. Job took a glass and leaned back in his chair.
Stella was talking, to him or at him. He must have been answering, but his own words vanished from his mind a moment after he spoke them. At last she came over and touched his face, and then his neck and chest.
"You're a sweet man, you are. What's your name, sweet man?"
"Job Salk. Job Napoleon Salk." Eight years of self-discipline, dissolving into the night.
"Well, then." Her face was an inch away from his. "Where are we, Job Salk? Not there, for sure."
She was laughing at him as he failed to remove clothing, either hers or his own. She had to do it for both of them. He felt huge satisfaction when he saw her body naked. He had been quite right; the clothes she wore had been designed to conceal beauty, but beauty was there in abundance.
He forgot his aching arms and face. He felt wonderful. She felt wonderful.
And as she lay down beside him and took him in her arms, everything felt wonderful.
* * *
From their languorous awakening the next morning until almost midday, it was a contest with lovemaking as the prize: Who could think of the best new reason why Stella should not leave yet, or contact her cousin?
After noon neither mentioned it. Job watched Stella, touched her, and listened to her, and was watched and fondled in return.
Everything about her pleased him. She yawned, and he admired the strong and regular white teeth. She scratched her thigh, and he watched an after-blush of pink blooming on her fair skin. She ate, with an appetite three times Job's, and he touched her face, feeling the contraction of strong muscles in her upper jaw as she bit and chewed and swallowed.
In the late afternoon Job began to wonder what they would eat for dinner. Stella had exhausted the best of his own and his Brazilian landlady's food supplies, and he wanted to give her something special.
He took his jacket. There was a street market a mile away, and a liquor store in the same direction.
"Wait here."
"But I want to come with you."
"I'd like you to. But they're bound to be looking for you. Once you're seen, they won't let you stay any longer. I'll only be a couple of hours. Maybe less."
"But there's nothing to do here."
"Read a book." Job glanced at the shelved walls of his room as he left. Books were like thoughts, they crept up on you. When he looked with a stranger's eye, he saw a room where books were as numerous as in Professor Buckler's study.
"Read!" Stella grimaced at him and flopped down in a chair. "Who reads?"
"I'll be back as soon as I can. Less than two hours."
But it was closer to four. The nearest food market was already closed. After grocery shopping, and a long wait at a beer and wine store, he had continued to the magazine shop. He wanted to buy the government daily broadsheet, and see if it said anything about Stella. And she had been complaining about the awful quality of the soap he gave her (the very best he had), so he needed to buy something out of his usual interest or price range. After the second food market that meant another long walk.
It was almost dark by the time he reached home. He was loaded with groceries and supplies, enough to eat for a week without ever going out. It was a struggle to open the door while balancing bags, and then to turn and close it the same way.
Stella had not come out to help him, although she must have heard him fumbling around in the doorway. She had not even thought to put the light on, even though the room was now dark. That no longer surprised him. She was used to having things done for her. It never occurred to her that others might need help.
But she was wonderful, all the same. He turned around, arms still full ofbags and boxes. "I'm back, love."
"So you are, love," said a man's voice in the darkness. "And not before time. You said two hours. Wha
t kept you, Job Salk?"
Chapter Eleven
"So twice ten miles of sterile ground,
With walls and towers were girdled round."
Matt and Daniello. Hunting him down and looking for revenge.
Before that thought was fully formed, Job was hit by another. His name! The man, whoever he was, knew his name. So it couldn't be Daniello and friends.
The light went on as Job flattened against the wall. The intruder was sitting at ease in Job's only good chair, hands folded in his lap. Before Job could move, one hand lifted to show the tiny gun it was holding. There was a soft popping sound and the wall a couple of feet from Job's head began to smoke and crumble.
"That is to discourage action, not to suggest it." The man let his hands fold again into his lap. "Before you are tempted to folly, let me assure you that whether or not I could kill you before you reached me—and I would bet heavily in my favor—there are men guarding each exit. You would never make it out of this building."
"Stella," said Job, glaring around the room.
"Is not here. Obviously." The man smiled. He had a fair-skinned and cherubic face, and was almost totally bald. With his short stubby arms and legs, and a belly that protruded far out over his belt, he gave the impression of a huge and good-natured dwarf. "You don't know our Stella very well, do you? Telling her to sit down and read a book! Might as well ask her to grow wings and fly. You hadn't been gone more than fifteen minutes before she got bored and decided to take a look around outside. We had five hundred people searching for her. She was spotted in half an hour."
"You're her cousin, Reginald Brook?"
"Good lord, no." The fat man laughed. "My name is Wilfred Dell. Reginald Brook would be truly appalled at the idea that I might be mistaken for him. But don't just stand there—take a seat."
The tone was joking, but it was an order. Job sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Before we begin," went on Dell, "let me tell you some ground rules. I don't want you to have the wrong idea about your own situation. Stella Michelson belongs to a very old and wealthy family. Should a street basura like you even try to touch her hand, the men of the family would want him castrated or executed. What they want, they usually get."
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